


The Holiday

by sloganeer



Series: kaná:ta' still means "town" in Mohawk [3]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Canon Canadian Character, Canon Queer Character, Future Fic, Husbands, M/M, Post-Canon, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23472340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sloganeer/pseuds/sloganeer
Summary: “Well,” Mom says, “you’re the closest thing we have to an expert here today, sweetheart, so what kind of pie should I make for a proper American Thanksgiving?”
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Series: kaná:ta' still means "town" in Mohawk [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686322
Comments: 5
Kudos: 123





	The Holiday

Now that they have the house—now that Patrick and his dad have completed the kitchen reno—David is excited to celebrate all the holidays. 

“Twice!” David had announced, at their Canadian Thanksgiving in October, the one with Stevie, Twyla, and even Alexis, visiting from New York, sat around their new barn wood table. “Come back in November, and we can do it all again!”

But then life got busy, and Alexis had to work. Stevie was out of town, and the Roses never seemed to read Patrick’s emails. Instead, it’s just the Brewers, plus David, for a Thursday dinner in November.

“We never really did Thanksgiving, not like we did Christmas,” David explains now, long legs dangling from the counter, like the glass of red wine in his hand. “Though Dad did order the turkey dinner special every time it was on the menu at the Café.” 

“No big feast?” Patrick’s mom asks. “Even when you were younger?” She’s bent over the dining table, rolling out the pastry for tonight’s pies. Dad is out in the backyard, eye on the turkey, fascinated by Patrick’s new smoker. 

Patrick sets his spatula on the terra cotta spoon rest beside the stove. He reaches across the kitchen to put his hand on David’s knee, dark hair and skin peeking through his ripped white jeans. 

“There were a couple of dinner parties in November that might have been Thanksgiving? Honestly, Mom and Alexis were never big on solid food back then.” David drops his hand to pick up Patrick’s and tangle their fingers together. Patrick has to turn down the heat so he can settle himself beside David, elbows in knees. 

His mom catches his eye so they can share a sad look, a familiar one, even half a decade into their life with the Roses. 

“Well,” Mom says, “you’re the closest thing we have to an expert here today, sweetheart, so what kind of pie should I make for a proper American Thanksgiving?”

David doesn’t even hesitate. “Apple, of course.”

Patrick feels David lean down to kiss the top of his head, and then he’s being shoved out of the way. Clearly the pie is more important than the husband. Patrick wanders back to the stove and his Brussels sprouts.

“Now, I know Martha would probably claim pumpkin is the more important pie for a Thanksgiving feast, but it doesn’t have the same symbolism.”

After a peek into the oven to check on his roast potatoes (they’re also doing mashed, which are boiling at the back of the stove), Patrick sneaks a look over his shoulder at his husband and his mom. It never grows old, watching the two of them delight in the novelty of each other. And that novelty—of formal sweatpants and pâte brisée—hasn’t worn off for them either.

“But the truth?” David is saying, carrying Mom’s wrapped pie dough to the fridge on the gentle bend of his wrist. “I’ve never liked the taste of pumpkin. Like feet—and your son can tell you that’s not my kink.”

Mom laughs and laughs as she refills their wine glasses. David returns to the table with a basket of apples from the family down the road.

“I’m gonna check on Dad,” Patrick announces above the sound of his undoing. “Don’t get into anymore trouble in here.”

“Oh, honey,” David says, as he crunches through a blushing pink apple. “You know I always save the best for the dinner.”


End file.
